Just a Tool Revisited
by dysprositos
Summary: Re-write of Just a Tool. Dr. Bruce Banner has an unorthodox way of managing his emotions. It's not a problem. But it might become one. Add in an alien invasion and a megalomaniacal demigod, and it definitely will. Warnings inside.
1. Just a Tool

**Hey there, long time no write, right? Sorry about that.**

**As an attempt to maybe get back into writing, I've decided to do a re-write of Just a Tool. Which this is. It's going to be very similar to the original Just a Tool, which will still be available to read, but hopefully with better writing. There are several issues in terms of characterization and dialogue I'd like to address. The plot will stay more or less the same, with probably a few minor tweaks.**

**I'm grateful to my beta, bequirk, who wasn't around when I originally published the first few chapters of this in 2012.**

**All of the warnings from the original still stand; those are generally self-harm and suicidal ideation of varying degrees. Chapter specific warnings will be listed for each chapter.**

**All that said, please enjoy.**

**Warnings: self-harm.**

* * *

Dr. Bruce Banner was not accustomed to people...caring.

Generally, the possibility didn't register in his mind because he wouldn't let it. After Betty, after all he'd lost...he didn't want to feel that again. Ever.

Living alone, first in Canada, then in southeast Asia, his existence had been a selfish one, at least at first, before he'd become entwined in village life, working for his keep. His only concern back then had been his own survival, and as he had found during his foray into the arctic, he was a survivor, his own will be damned.

The solitude was oppressive and, at times, suffocating, but it was also freeing in a way. It was easier not having to think about how his actions would affect the people around him. He was the only person concerned with what he did, and that was the way of things.

This freed him to focus all his energy on not becoming a giant green catastrophe, a walking disaster.

Avoiding the Other Guy was ever present in his mind, so he couldn't call himself completely selfish. His first concern was and would always be protecting the people around him. That was the macro level. On a micro level, though, he was selfish. After being so alone for so long, he just didn't think about other people anymore. They didn't register. If he wasn't endangering them, they didn't matter.

At all.

Which was why, when he heard the lab door sliding open behind him, he didn't immediately stop what he was doing.

But then an indignant "What the hell are you doing?" stopped him.

It occurred to him, then, that his current actions could possibly be interpreted as "completely crazy." That wasn't the case, though; he could explain. It was, he felt, a good explanation.

"Tony, I can explain this," Bruce said, his voice even, balanced. Detached.

"Can you really?" Tony retorted sharply. "Because, to me, it looks like you're trying to break your arm."

Bruce considered that, head cocked slightly to one side. He supposed yes, he could understand how it looked, but really, Tony of all people should know about the strength of bone and the force required to damage it. Unless you applied torsion...then it wouldn't take much because bones—long bones at least—weren't meant to move that way...

Tony coughed, an exaggerated "ahem," and when Bruce looked up, he saw Tony had raised a skeptical eyebrow. It contrasted sharply with his worried frown. The overall effect was one of conflicted concern.

Bruce realized he hadn't started speaking yet. Now seemed like a good time to remedy that.

"Okay," he began. "I'm sure you know about endorphins..."

* * *

It was something he'd discovered after he'd broken Harlem, after he'd left Canada for a more...tropical climate.

Hey, when you're basically homeless, it's better to be somewhere warm, right?

Anyway, he'd returned from working at his current menial job in his present equatorial country and found that his hovel (he hesitated to call it his home) had been ransacked and more-or-less destroyed. Bruce was not overly attached to material things—after all, he was living in a hovel in a third world country. He was, however, attached to his laptop, which was now missing.

Oh, wait, not missing. It lay in pieces on the floor. Shit. That laptop had contained all of his notes and research on his condition, everything he'd compiled since the accident—at least as much of it as he'd managed to retain on the run. Of course, Bruce wasn't a moron—he had saved backups of his work, but losing his laptop was still a huge blow. He lived in a hovel in a third world country and barely made enough to feed himself. How on earth could he afford a new one?

He began to feel angry.

Looking at the mess of broken glass and other garbage littering this once-neat, organized area, he began to feel more angry.

Further perusal revealed that his few clothes had been ripped out of the closet and strewn across the floor. And...what was that smell? Urine? Had they seriously urinated on his stuff?

_Who does that?_

Bruce's vision had been suddenly tinged with green.

He'd known that was dangerous territory. His heart had been beating too fast—the heart monitor he'd still been wearing on his wrist at that point was beeping—and he'd needed to calm down.

_It's just stuff, it's just stuff, it's just stuff_. Bruce had closed his eyes, breathing deeply and focusing on slowing his pulse.

After a moment, feeling calmer, he'd opened his eyes.

And noticed, now that he was calmer, the creative graffiti that covered the walls of his living space. The word "vulgar" did not quite begin to encompass the elaborate murals that he had found himself blessed with. Van Gogh had nothing on the mastery of these artists.

With a growl, unthinking, he'd whirled and punched the wall—decorated with something that resembled a six-legged penis—as hard as he could.

The pain was intense, and there was panic.

_oh god oh god oh god this is it I'm going to change jesus christ_

The wrist heart monitor had beeped frantically, shrilly, the sound piercing through Bruce's brain, and the Other Guy had been shifting under his skin, and then—

Then there was nothing.

Silence.

Bruce had opened his eyes slowly, fully expecting to be standing amidst the wreckage of the village, wearing only the shredded remains of his oddly resilient and modesty-maintaining pants

But...while he had been standing in wreckage, it had been his hovel, his broken laptop, his urine-soaked belongings. He hadn't blacked out, hadn't moved, had, in fact, only closed his eyes for a moment.

_What the hell?_

Bruce had shook his head, dazed.

_Was I lucky? What...?_

He had no idea. But he wasn't going to take it for granted. Neither was he going to let it go unexplained.

Instead, Bruce had thought about it for a few days, while he cleaned up his hovel and set things back to rights. And eventually, he thought he had it figured out.

It hadn't been luck. It had been biology, plain and simple.

When injured, the body, primarily the pituitary gland, releases endorphins, a class of chemicals that cause feelings of euphoria and exhilaration. The way Bruce figured, by punching the wall and injuring his body, he had caused a release of endorphins, which had in turn created a rush of pleasure that short-circuited the rage and left him feeling calm and...empty.

That didn't add up, though. Bruce had been injured before and it had triggered a transformation, not halted one. But then...many of those incidents had involved him being shot at or otherwise antagonized. Maybe there was a threshold of panic and rage that endorphins couldn't overcome? It sort of made sense. Right?

Whether or not it did, it was all he had for an explanation.

He'd made a note to himself to test his theory...as soon as he got a new laptop.

* * *

Tony was still staring at him, for once silent.

"So," Bruce finished his recitation, "It's a way to deal with things before they get out of control. I can just stop my emotions when I need to, and avoid a lot of the danger. Of course, it's not perfect, and if someone shoots at me I'm still pretty much screwed, but it's helped me out at least as much as all the yoga and meditation I've done over the years."

There was a pause. Then:

"Dr. Banner," Tony began roughly, clearing his throat, "That's screwed up."

That was not quite the response Bruce had been expecting. He sighed internally, mentally running through his spiel, trying to think of where he had been unclear. He decided, after going over it, it hadn't been him; Tony was just being slow. Deliberately, he said, "No, Tony, it's really not. It's pretty rational. Scientific even. The Other Guy needs to stay controlled, and it helps me do that. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong?" Tony's voice was going up in pitch rather dramatically. "What's wrong is that I walked through that door and saw you engaging in some kind of masochistic self-abuse thing." Then he grabbed Bruce's arm and yanked his shirt sleeve up.

Bruce, unaccustomed to being manhandled (or touched at all, really), froze.

The two of them looked down at the exposed arm.

A large bruise was forming, just above the wrist bones, where Bruce had a moment ago been banging it against the corner of the lab table. Several other bruises, mostly faded, were visible, going up his arm and disappearing under his shirt.

"This is not normal, Bruce." Tony said emphatically, his voice back down to its normal pitch. "This is self-injury, and you shouldn't be doing this to yourself—"

Bruce yanked his arm back, pushing his sleeve down. He shook his head, almost condescendingly. "Tony, I'm not some 16-year-old with emotional problems. This is just a tool, that's all. I've got it under control."

Tony quirked an eyebrow. "Just a tool, huh?" He crossed his arms. "What do you think it is for the 16-year-olds with emotional problems, exactly?"

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but found he didn't have a good answer.

He closed his mouth and frowned.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'm not going to make promises in terms of an update schedule since I'm pretty unreliable. **


	2. The Mustard Conundrum

**Thanks to my beta, bequirk, as always.**

**Warnings: discussion of previous self-harm and suicide attempts, excessive use of mustard.**

* * *

Bruce's phone buzzed in his pocket.

Again.

With a beleaguered sigh, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. His stomach dropped, then twisted in pre-emptive annoyance.

He had a new e-mail. The little envelope icon on his phone shined up at him innocuously.

It was anything but.

Since he was sitting at his computer (and had been, for hours, oh the _joy _of theoretical science), Bruce decided to pull the message up there. His phone may have been designed by Tony Stark himself, and it might feature all the finest hardware and software available, but a 5-inch screen was still a 5-inch screen.

Bruce hated squinting. His last pair of reading glasses had gotten broken...somewhere, and he hadn't bothered replacing them yet.

When his e-mail client opened, he heaved the sigh he'd been prepared to release since his phone vibrated. The message was, of course, from Tony.

But Bruce opened it anyway, even though he had a sinking feeling he already knew what it was about.

This wasn't the first e-mail he'd received that day. He doubted it would be the last.

'Hey Bruce,' the message said. 'Thought you might find this interesting. TS.'

It was a link.

Bruce sighed again and clicked on it. He managed to make it exactly four seconds before he sighed _again_. This time it was accompanied with an eye-roll, because he found himself on a support message board for people who self-harmed.

It was the third such website Tony had sent him that day.

Bruce wasn't sure if Tony was mocking him, or if he legitimately thought he was being helpful.

Shaking his head, he closed out the window. He had work to do. He could think about Tony's motives later.

Or, preferably, never.

* * *

Predictably, Bruce lost track of time. Unfortunately, when he realized that his current line of research was going nowhere, he was snapped back to an unpleasant reality. His stomach had moved beyond growling, and he was momentarily concerned that it had begun to devour itself. That, combined with hours of staring at a computer screen had resulted in a headache of truly epic proportions.

Fantastic.

Popping a couple Tylenol, Bruce turned out the lights in his lab and headed to the communal kitchen. It was mostly used for snacks and drinks, though it was fully equipped, and given how hungry he was, Bruce thought he'd grab some fruit to tide him over until he got to his own rooms.

As he walked down the hall, he saw that the lights in the kitchen were on. They were activated by motion sensors. Which meant _someone _was up.

This wasn't so unusual, as the now-and-again residents of Stark Tower were not renowned for their normal sleep habits nor for their tendency to stay in their own rooms. Even given the late hour, it could have been any of them. But as far as Bruce knew there was only one other person residing at the Tower currently, as all the others had been sent out on varied and 'top secret' missions. Or were at home, in an alien realm.

The one other person currently residing in the Tower infamously suffered from insomnia.

"Good morning, Bruce," Tony greeted him, as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. Tony's eyes were wide and innocent. He was seated at the island in the middle of the kitchen, eating chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream straight from the container with what looked to be a mixing spoon and playing some game (were those Smurfs?) on his tablet. Bruce felt that "good morning" ought to be reserved for actual mornings, the kind that occurred after sleeping, and not for people slouching into the kitchen at 3:30 in the morning for a snack. Nevertheless, he returned the greeting.

Tony took an obscenely large bite of ice cream and chewed loudly. He swallowed, and then asked, "Did you get my e-mail?"

Bruce sighed, trying not to wince at Tony chewing ice cream. Didn't that hurt his teeth? Pushing that aside, he answered evenly, "I think you mean e-mails. Plural. Numerous. And yes, I got them."

"Did you read them?" Innocent blinking.

"Of course I did." And that was true. He had definitely read the e-mails.

"Did you read the links?" Tony drew the vowel out.

Bruce pursed his lips. "Not...exactly. I opened them, though." He'd made it that far.

Tony rolled his eyes. Bruce took that as a 'win.'

Not that this was a competition, of course, as much as it sometimes felt like they were trying to out-annoy each other.

Bruce moved to the fridge and started digging out the fixings for a killer sandwich. He'd changed his mind about the fruit, and watching Tony stuff himself with ice cream was frankly nauseating. He needed to eat something of substance before he threw up.

Two minutes later, Bruce was still standing illuminated in the open doors of the fridge and was trying to differentiate between 4 different kinds of mustard (who had that many different kinds?). Tony spoke again, addressing Bruce's back.

"Look, it's just, after what you said on the helicarrier...I'm just worried, and it's not like that's really all that strange, is it? I mean I'm not exactly known for being all 'sensitive' or whatever, but I'm not completely selfish, well, okay, I'm pretty selfish and I'm sure you noticed that. Who hasn't? I'm pretty sure if you polled most people on the street, they'd agree that I'm pretty goddamn selfish. And self-absorbed. And kind of oblivious to other people. But, the point is—"

This was becoming physically exhausting to listen to. Bruce interrupted, speaking into the fridge. "Are you actually going to get to the point, or just keep rambling ad infinitum?"

"Hey, I was almost to the point. No need to get so snippy, jeez. The point _is_, you put a bullet in your mouth, and that's not something normal, healthy people do. So don't try and tell me you're normal and healthy and you don't have a problem and don't act like I'm blowing this completely out of proportion."

Bruce was not in the mood to hash this out or to deal with Tony's run on sentences. It was almost 4:00 in the morning, and he still hadn't decided which mustard he wanted, and his head was killing him and talking to Tony was challenging on a good day.

This was not a good day.

Also, the possibility of a connection between his "stress relief" and his suicide attempt(s) was not something he was prepared to, at this particular moment, discredit. Although it certainly seemed ridiculous

He turned to face Tony, slumping against the fridge, suddenly exhausted. "Can we...not do this right now? I need to pick a mustard and go to bed."

Tony snorted, setting his ice cream spoon down. "Yeah, right, that's exactly what you need to do."

Bruce felt a flash of irritation, hot and squirming in his gut. He pulled himself upright.

"You know," he said, his words clipped, "It's awfully rich, coming from you, all this stuff about 'normal' and 'healthy,' since you flew a nuke into outer space, and never sleep, and get all your nutrients from ice cream and liquor. I don't think you're an authority on the subject."

Tony shrugged easily, apparently unaffected by Bruce's vitriol. "But everyone knows I'm like that. I think my file used the phrase 'explosively self-destructive.' Seemed a little hyperbolic to me, but whatever." He paused and looked down, speaking to the granite countertop in front of him. "No one notices you though. I don't know if you want it that way or what, but it's true. And if you do something stupid and self-destructive no one will be looking, and that's dangerous. You need people to watch out for you, Bruce." He looked up and added, "Since you're too stupid to do it yourself."

Bruce took exception to that. Of all the people for this to come from, it had to be Tony, didn't it?

"Oh, and are you going to take on that responsibility? Do you really think it's your business?" Bruce didn't pause to let Tony answer. "No, really. Enlighten me. In what universe is it your business? I'm an adult, it's my body, and it's not like it's dangerous. They're just bruises, Tony, it's not important. Can't you just...drop it?"

He tried not to notice how desperate his last words sounded and turned back to the fridge, grabbing every mustard he could see.

He was going to make a goddamn sandwich.

* * *

Tony Stark did not just "drop" things.

Still, he decided to leave this battle for another day. He still had a slew of links to send Bruce, after all, and it wasn't like Bruce was going anywhere, anyway. Tony had time, resources, and a limitless supply of that trademarked Tony Stark charm. It would be okay.

Tony watched as Bruce hastily slathered his bread with four kinds of mustard and sloppily added meat, cheese, and vegetables. He took his (disturbing) creation and, with a parting glare at Tony, stalked from the room.

Impulsively, Tony yelled after him, "You know, Bruce, there are better ways to release endorphins!"

Without turning, Bruce made a rude gesture and slipped from view.

_Yeah,_ Tony thought. _He needs someone watching out for him_.


	3. Human Goo Puddles

**Thanks as always to my beta, bequirk.**

**Warnings: self-injury, references to past self-injury.**

* * *

Days after his late-night chat with Bruce, Tony had been abruptly awakened at 1:13 AM by his own fast-paced heartbeat and gasping breath, his memory haunted by a vague yet persistent memory of falling.

Panic attack.

Again.

_Damn it_.

As always when this happened, the first thing Tony had done was make sure that Pepper was still asleep. She was, lying next to him, one leg thrown haphazardly out from under the covers, one arm shoved under her pillow.

Breathing a small sigh of relief, Tony had delicately extricated himself from the bed and padded as quietly as he could out of the room. Being a walking night light sometimes made it hard to sneak around in the dark, but he managed to escape without waking Pepper.

The less she had to know about this crap, the better.

Normally, after one of his late-night 'incidents,' Tony would have popped down to his workshop to tinker. At the moment, however, he had a different distraction. He'd grabbed a glass of scotch and plopped down in front of his computer, no concrete objective in mind, but had quickly found himself reading an article about the incidence of self-injury in adults.

When he'd finished reading, with a flourish he added the link to the email he was going to send Bruce.

It was an impressive and ever-growing missive.

It wasn't so much that Tony worried Bruce was going to maim himself. Well, he was worried about that, of course. He was more worried, though, by the apparent lack of concern Bruce felt for his own well-being. His indifference to harming his body wasn't normal. 'Just bruises,' he had said, as if the fact he was quite literally beating himself up didn't matter in the least. Most people cared when they got hurt. Most people wanted to avoid it.

Of course, this was coming from someone who had willingly flown a nuclear weapon into a space portal. Tony could see the hypocrisy that had irritated Bruce so badly; he wasn't entirely lacking in self-awareness. But Tony Stark never let a small thing like hypocrisy stand in his way.

His ruminating was interrupted a moment later by JARVIS.

"Director Fury is on the phone, sir. He seems quite urgent. Shall I patch him through?"

Tony frowned. The last time SHIELD had wantedto reach him, the whole world had been at stake. It was _probably_ for the best not to ignore him. Trying to disregard the thread of irritation (or was it lingering panic?) in his chest, Tony answered, "Fine. Whatever." No need to seem too eager. Too accommodating.

"Stark," came Fury's voice a moment later, "There's an...'incident' in progress a few hours outside of the city. We're going to need you to come in."

The word 'incident' raised Tony's metaphorical hackles. He didn't associate it with anything good. He'd already had one 'incident' tonight. And hadn't they had enough of this kind of shit, the hush-hush, SHIELD weirdness? They were fresh from an alien invasion and he, well. He wasn't ready for round two of SHIELD weirdness. He prodded, "An incident?"

"Yes, Stark, an incident."

Fury's vagueness grated. Sharply, now, Tony said, "Oh, I'm sure you and your fine agents can handle it, darling. I'm busy." If Fury was going to play with him, he was going to play with Fury.

Fury ignored him, acting as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Romanoff will be there to pick you up in ten minutes. Bring Banner with you; we need him, and he's not answering his goddamn phone."

"Wait, why can't I just fly—" the line went dead.

Someone, Tony thought, had to talk to that man about phone etiquette.

* * *

He thought Natasha (apparently back from her mission doing god-knows-what) might actually kill him.

Instead of using the ten minutes he'd been given to prepare, Tony had instead leisurely finished drinking his scotch while checking on his Smurf village—damn that game was addictive—and updating his e-mail to Bruce. Thus, when she arrived, pounding on the door to the lab, he was not ready to do anything, let alone face an 'incident.'

At 2:45 in the morning, he doubted very much that Bruce was awake and ready to go. Or that he would particularly want to participate in this little endeavor. Tony, frankly, didn't want to participate—he didn't know what he was getting into, he didn't know why they needed Bruce, didn't know what kind of 'incident' this was going to be. All he knew was that none of it boded well.

But nothing boded as poorly as the furious redhead tapping her foot outside Tony's lab.

Furious redheads were always bad news.

So with a grimace, Tony had opened the door to the lab and metaphorically patted Natasha on the head (he still wouldn't dare to actually touch her) and led her to a couch, telling her to sit tight while he roused Bruce.

Unfortunately, when Tony asked JARVIS to send Bruce up, JARVIS replied that Bruce was working in his lab and had put him on 'silent mode.'

Which meant Tony would have to go get Bruce himself.

Which would take more time.

Natasha's frown had only deepened at that.

And thus, as he headed towards the elevator, Tony had half-expected Natasha to shoot him, or maybe start throwing knives. He resisted looking back over his shoulder.

Barely.

Tony, once on the elevator, counted his blessings that Bruce was, at least, awake. If everything went okay from here, Natasha might not shoot him at all. Not even a little bit.

Whistling a small tune to celebrate his newfound good fortune, he pushed open the door to the lab.

"Hey, Bruce, Natasha's here, and Fury says we—"

The greeting died in his throat as he crossed the threshold just in time to witness Bruce slamming his fist viciously into the metal workbench next to his computer.

Bruce, for his part, jumped about a foot in the air at Tony's intrusion, clutching his hand to his chest, his expression tight and closed off. "Tony!"

"Bruce!" Tony replied, raising his eyebrows and mimicking Bruce's tone, more out of habit than any real thought.

Bruce's reply was a wary glare.

Tony met his eyes for a moment and then glanced down at the fist Bruce still had hugged to his chest. It looked terrible already, swelling and turning colors.

Bruce responded by lowering his arms to his sides, though his posture remained stiff.

Ugh. They didn't have time for this right now. Tony's mind wandered to Natasha, alone and angry in his lab. He could address _this _'incident' with Bruce later; after all, he had an email in his drafts that was aching to be sent. The _other _incident couldn't wait.

Looked like today was just going to be one damn incident after another.

"Come on, Banner, duty calls," Tony said, lifting his eyes back up to Bruce's face.

Bruce frowned, then made a fist and then flexed his hand. There was an audible _crunch_.

Tony's stomach turned, partly out of sympathy, partly because that was _gross_.

"What's up?" Bruce asked, as if anything about this was normal. _He _seemed mostly normal, at the very least; his tone was normal, his expression relaxed, now, perhaps even...flat.

An abrupt change from a few seconds ago.

"No idea," Tony answered honestly, "But Fury called, and now Natasha's downstairs, and she's pissed that you're keeping her waiting."

Visibly paling, Bruce hastily saved whatever he'd been working on and hopped up. "I need to stop in my room, I left my phone. And shoes. I need shoes. Oh screw it, shoes are probably a waste anyway. Let's go. I don't need my phone either."

Tony tried not to laugh. "Bruce, it's okay. She's not angry with you, she's angry with me because _I'm _keeping her waiting. You're way too...nice...and...awkward for her to get angry at, she didn't even mind when you nearly killed her."

Bruce made a half-hearted attempt at a scowl. "That's not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be funny," Tony answered. "Come on, let's go."

Once Bruce and Tony had made it back to the lab, Natasha wasted no time in dragging them down to the garage. In the car, she navigated the city streets like a native New Yorker. Soon they were heading north, away from the city lights.

In silence.

After an hour of what he felt was increasingly awkward quietude, Tony decided it was time to figure out what the hell was going on.

"So, 'Tasha," he said, saccharine sweet, "Where are we going?"

Her phone rang.

Completely ignoring Tony, she answered it, pulling it out of her pocket instead of letting the car's Bluetooth answer for her.

"This is Romanoff." A pause. "Yeah. Yes, sir. Yeah, Banner's here." Then. "Yes, sir. We're a few minutes out. Okay. Okay. Yes, sir."

She ended the call, tossing her phone one-handed onto the center console. Not looking away from the windshield, she spoke brusquely, "Okay, here's what going on. We've got a bit of a mutant problem."

A mutant problem in New York? Tony didn't think that was exactly...newsworthy.

As if reading Tony's mind, Natasha continued, "And it's not what you think. Something...crashed in the state forest. We're pretty sure it's of extraterrestrial origin. It's emitting high levels of radiation, but we're not sure what kind. It's mutating the wildlife, apparently including the trees, and it's all now spontaneously combusting. Including the animals, I mean." She paused as if waiting to be interrupted. When no disruption came—Tony thought this was way too interesting to interrupt and Bruce had probably never interrupted anyone in his life—she went on, "Our mission is as follows: we need to sample the object, contain the radiation, and stop the fire. With Rogers on a mission in Europe, it's going to mostly be the two of you. Stark, you're on forest fire duty. There's a town a couple of miles from here, and we'd prefer if it didn't burn to the ground." She smirked. "It would be bad PR."

She paused again, then went on with the specifics when no one had any questions. "Banner, we need you to sample the object. And then contain it. From what we've determined, it's only about the size of a basketball, which means it's pumping out a huge amount of energy to do all this damage."

Tony glanced back at Bruce, who looked markedly unhappy. Still, he said, "And you figure it won't kill me? Or...you think it won't kill the Other Guy."

It wasn't a question.

Natasha nodded. "Your physiology makes you immune to radiation." Then, frankly, she added, "And your rapid healing as the Hulk makes you pretty damn hard to kill."

Bruce gave a half-snort, half disbelieving huff. "Well, this is a great idea and all, but the Other Guy's not really...capable...of running scientific tests. Or taking samples. Or containing things." More thoughtfully, he added, "He mostly just...smashes."

In the front seat, Tony rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Bruce," he said. "That's not true—you saved my life as the Hulk, and didn't 'smash' me at all." He glanced behind him, trying to meet Bruce's gaze in the gloom. "I think you have more control than you give yourself credit for."

"Look," Natasha interjected. "We thought of that. We have an instrument that'll do all the work if you get reasonably close to the object. All you need to do is carry it." With that, she turned onto a side road. A few miles up, flashing lights were visible, and Tony got his first glimpse of the forest fire he was about to try to contain. It was massive, flames licking up through the tree limbs, smoke billowing into the dark night sky.

"As for containment," Natasha went on, evidently indifferent to the disaster they were driving towards, "We've got a receptacle for it. Just get it inside the container, and Tony can make sure it gets back to headquarters."

Before Tony could object to being responsible for the fate of this strange, radioactive object, Bruce ground out, "I should make you two sign waivers so I can't be held responsible when you both end up as...as...human goo puddles or something. This is a terrible plan. Is this really the best SHIELD could do?"

Tony reached back from the front seat and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, Bruce."

* * *

When they arrived at the scene, Tony had wasted no time in getting to work. He'd "slipped" into his suit—which he'd carried with him in its briefcase—as much as anyone could "slip" into something stiff and metallic. He'd made a few adjustments, checked his UI one last time, and muttered something indistinguishable about 'incidents.' Then, he'd loudly blurted out, "But I guess I've got chipmunks or some shit to save. See you guys later."

And with that, he'd flown away.

That left Bruce standing next to the car with Natasha.

Before the pair had needed to engage in conversation, Clint—also apparently called in for this mission—walked over from where he'd been consulting with the DNR. From what Bruce could tell, Clint had been previously picking off the mutated wildlife as it ran from the flames. Probably for best, as the animals were, as Natasha had said, spontaneously combusting. And...strange looking.

"What's up?" Clint said, addressing Natasha. "Too bad all this stuff is mutated, 'cause I wouldn't mind having venison for dinner. Or rabbit. Or maybe chipmunk."

She punched his arm. Clint punched her arm back and then casually threw an arm around her shoulders. Then, to Bruce, he said abruptly, "What the hell happened to your hand?"

Bruce had been attempting to fade into the background and was not expecting to be addressed. As such, he had no real response. "Uh...what?"

Well, that certainly demonstrated the famous genius of Dr. Bruce Banner. _Nicely done, Banner, _he thought to himself. _Using that mind to its full capabilities._

"Your hand," Clint repeated as Natasha shrugged his arm off her shoulder. Then, before Bruce could reply, Clint whipped around and fired a shot at some flaming...thing, stopping it in its tracks. He turned back to Bruce and Natasha like nothing had happened. "Man, this sucks. Your hand, Banner. It looks broken. What happened?"

Natasha, quick as lightning, grabbed Bruce's arm in a vice-like grip and looked down at his hand. Even in the rather shoddy lighting, it looked bad; bruised black and blue, with the second, third, and fourth knuckles lost under swelling. "Jesus, Bruce, what the hell?"

If Tony's reaction to his stress relief method was anything to go by, Bruce figured that now was not the time for honesty. "I, uh, fell."

That was lame. Even he knew it.

"Really?" asked Clint, blunt and pointed. "And what did you punch on the way down? 'Cause that's a boxer's fracture if I ever saw one."

Bruce frowned and hunched in on himself, yanking his arm back to his side. Damn these assassins, did they have to be so observant?

Well, yeah, he supposed they kind of did. It was inconvenient, though. At least, it was right now.

Bruce was saved from answering by what he thought had at one point been a bobcat before it had apparently gotten a large dose of alien radiation. Normally, bobcats came in at about 20 pounds. This creature was at least six or seven times larger, with a rabid look to it that Bruce didn't like at all. Snarling and drooling, it plowed through a group of assembled firefighters and random spectators who'd come out to watch the disaster unfold.

_What the hell?_ _This is straight out of some 1970s comic book. Can any kind of radiation even do that?_

"Well, fuck," said Clint aptly, and sprinted off to set up a shot.

"Okay," said Natasha, calm and unfazed as always. "We need to get a lid on this. That thing was…disturbing." She walked around behind the car and opened the trunk of the car and pulled out what looked like a large-ish lead box.

"What's that?" Bruce asked.

"A lead box," she replied, the 'duh' left unsaid but strongly implied. "With a few other things built in. It should be able to contain the radiation. If it doesn't, I guess we'll all turn into mutated freaks. Or die. Probably both." She shrugged, and then looked at him expectantly.

Bruce realized she was waiting for him to transform.

"You should...take cover, or something," he said. waving vaguely towards a nearby stand of trees.

Natasha didn't move, instead giving Bruce a bored look.

Bruce sighed. And Tony thought _he_ was self-destructive.

Well, it was what it was. This thing needed to get done before anyone got hurt. Cautiously, Bruce reached inside himself to find the pool of ever-present rage that burned deep within his mind. He had tapped into that pool when Loki had attacked Manhattan, transforming at will. It had been easy enough then. The rage had been barely contained, straining for release, like molten rock inside a volcano. His anger, carefully contained and carefully cultivated, ready to become a weapon, waiting only for him to let it free.

He had learned that in Canada, had learned to contain it. It had taken Manhattan to show him that he could harness it.

It had taken the Helicarrier to show that he was still dangerous.

With growing unease, Bruce closed his eyes, relaxed his rigid control, and let the wave crash over him.

Except.

There was no wave. There was no anger, no rage. Just mild panic and the constant throb of pain running from his fingertips to his elbow.

_What the hell?_

Bruce took a deep breath and looked inside again. And was again met with a blank, quiet space.

There was a shriek, echoed by a series of gunshots. Bruce's eyes snapped open. His internal world might have been quiet and peaceful, but the external world was going to hell. The mutant wildlife situation was becoming a serious hazard. What had only been the occasional mutated animal running out of the forest had become a constant, violent stream. There were too many for Clint to take, and none of the other gun-wielding people standing about were having any luck hitting anything in the awful flickering light. Especially something like a 20 lb, rabid squirrel. And a pack of those had just emerged from the flames.

_This is getting ridiculous, _Bruce thought,detached. Rational.

Calm.

"Sometime this week, Bruce!" Natasha snapped, her calm facade cracking slightly.

Bruce could feel his heart rate climbing, but it wasn't fast enough. He just wasn't...feeling...enough.

That alone should have caused him to panic, but it wasn't.

All he could focus on, he found, was the pain shooting up his arm from his hand.

Wait.

Pain. It was keeping him grounded. Focused. But he needed the rage right now. Or panic. Or fear, or something, anything. More pain would do it. There was a threshold! Right?

He closed his eyes and then clenched his fist as hard as he could. He felt the bones shift and crunch, and the pain was enormous.

He saw a flash of green, but it quickly faded with the endorphin rush.

_Damn it!_

"What the hell, Bruce!" Natasha yelled, her composure largely evaporated at this point. "What are you waiting for?"

Bruce opened his eyes and looked at her. He had an idea.

"Agent Romanoff," he said, and wondered at the immensely calm tone of his voice, "I need you to shoot me."

She stared at him.

"I think in the head would be best," he added helpfully.

Natasha did not reply, instead narrowing her eyes in confusion.

"Just...do it, okay? I'll explain later. I promise." Bruce desperately hoped she wouldn't remember to hold him to that.

Natasha pulled a gun out of a holster on her thigh, still looking at him as though he had gone completely insane. Bruce supposed that was a rational response to his request.

She hesitated.

"Agent Romanoff, I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't necessary. So just do it, please."

Still, she hesitated.

"It's not going to kill me."

Nothing.

"JUST DO IT!"

Bruce barely saw her move before he heard the gunshot.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**


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